Is this life?
by deadpoolhulk
Summary: the story of a witch who can not live with what she has done. and the Hunter that tries to save her from herself. some language, theams of suicide through out.


_Is this life?_

_Chapter one: why are we still here?_

_AN: hi there. Thank you for showing enough interest to read this far, and I hope you enjoy this story._

_I'm writing this because of the number of Fanfics which have zombies stay sane, and seem to deal with it all really well. Often joking around and falling in love. And I love those fanfics, don't get me wrong, ZoeyXWitch is one of my favourite parings, but every time I read them I can't help but think it's not how sane people would react to becoming a monster. Hence this story._

It's a strange way to see the world. Being underwater I mean. Everything's blurry and unfocused enough that you can guess what you are looking at, but can't be sure. See that's what I mean right here. Is that an arm reaching towards me? A tree branch? Wouldn't know. And I don't really care much either. Things are starting to get dark.

I welcome it.

Huh. So it was an arm. Makes sense, was an arm last time too. The arms connected to a body and the body is breathing fast and heavy. He's saying something to me. I can't bring myself to care.

I was so close that time. Damn.

And he just slapped me, he must have realised that I wasn't listening to him.

He's talking again. Better pay attention.

"-Doing this Sabrina? Please talk to me. Please?"

I stare at him silently and like every other time I look at him, he can't quite make himself look into my eyes. The pits of hell, as I call them. I stand up and try to walk past him, but when I reach him he grabs me.

I only struggle for a moment, before he's kissing me hard enough for me to feel my teeth slam into his and for a moment it helps.

He whispers that he loves me. Blankly I hear myself repeat it. I don't really mean it. He says he can't live without me. I smile and tell him we're both dead remember? We are dead and we are in hell. He smiles and asks me how it is hell if he has a beautiful girl in front of him that loves him?

Before I can think about it, I curse at him and push myself away. I shout at him that he's a monster that spends it's time killing people and fucking the only other monster he can hold a conversation with. I laugh and mockingly ask him how he can think that I am beautiful if he's blind? How he can bare to live with himself while I at least have the common decency to hate myself.

As soon as I do I regret it, at seeing the look on his face. I force myself to calm down. To stammer out an apology.

He stands there for a moment before growling that he'll be back later. And that I'd better still be here when he get's back.

My anger is back and I smirk at him, wordlessly stating that he has no way to stop me. Seconds later his hands are around my throat and he is yelling at me to swear that I'll be here, alive, when he gets back.

I laugh at him. "Or what? You have nothing to threaten me with. Come on! Do it! Shut up and tear my throat out!"

He hits me hard enough to send me to the floor and leaves. I probably deserve it.

Five minutes later and I'm on the roof of the store me and John have been living in since the start of all this and I'm writing words down awkwardly in a notebook I always carry around with me. It's hard to hold a pen when your fingers end in claws but I manage. I have no idea why I write, maybe it's because I want whatever immune who finds this to know that us freaks among freaks, or the special infected I hear you call us, are still aware.

I know my name was Sabrina, I know where I went to school, where I worked, who I have killed and I remember every moment of turning into a witch.

I remember when I rushed to my Mother begging for help, and I found out that when we smell uninfected flesh we lose ourselves. Jack tells me he has this feeling of wanting to eat, no matter the cost, Boomers start feeling ill but attracted to them, according to one I used to know. Tanks are always furious, but that just makes things worse. Jockeys are freaks, I wouldn't talk to them for a cure. O.k. for a cure but nothing else.

as for Me? I crumple to the ground weeping without being able to control my own actions, when Mom came close I tried to talk but all I could do was growl, I felt angry, I felt frightened and I couldn't stop myself from tearing her apart. And naturally that's when I come back to myself; I screamed and ran, trying to get far enough away to not have to look at her. Never worked, I can always see her face.

I keep thinking about my argument with John, I have found that we get angry very quickly and easily, but calming downs hard. I'll apologise when he get's back. I always apologise when he gets back.

My Jack. My hunter.

Oh great, a smoker is coming this way. I have not got the patience for what is about to happen.

"Hey babe." The guy smiles, he is acting like we're in some kind of bar or something. So stupid. "So Witchy, you lonely?"

"no." I answer, not even glancing at him.

"You got a name?" he tries again. Asshole doesn't take a hint now does he?

"Yes." I answer, this time glancing at him and giving him a look of contempt. I hate the smell of smokers, it lingers, stays for hours, and that would be a good enough reason not to kill him but damn he is annoying.

"Well why don't ya tell me babe? We could get to know one another." He says starting to look frustrated.

"Look. If you go to the mall a block away you should find a spitter called Wendy. She's the kind of slut you are looking for. Now go away." I finally tell him, Wendy won't mind, she seems to always want company but can't seem to hold a partner down. Mostly because she's a spitter.

The smoker laughs slightly "yeah well Spitters ain't really my type." See? Told you. "Witches on the other hand" he trails off, before making his tongue stretch over and lightly lick my cheek. I can't help but shudder slightly. "Hey don't be like that. I'll be good to ya." He promises and leans down towards me.

I smile at him before shoving my left hand through his forehead. His body fills the air with smoke. It stinks, it lingers and with a growl of frustration I walk back downstairs. I wonder what that guys name was. No wait, I don't care.

I just killed someone.

It hits me like a punch to the face, but I force myself past it. I think I have passed the point where I care. To many dead for me to care about one Smoker, besides it's not like I can be arrested right?

I really need a bath now. I think killing him was a mistake, because now I reek.

Huh, I better wait 'till Johns back. he'd probably over react if he sees me in the same position I was when I tried to kill myself.

I'm hungry.

I don't know if I can be bothered to eat today. Shit, is that it? I'm going to slowly try and starve myself to death? I'm so pathetic.

I'm a Pathetic. Worthless. Hideous. Killer. MONSTER. Cannibal. Animal. freak.

I crumple to the floor, crying my stupid and self loathing eyes out. so Pathetic, the other special infected have their coping methods, drinking themselves into depression or having sex with anyone who asks (But who's ever been interested in that ugly slut?) and they all shut the damn hell up and deal with it! but me? I'm the only one to cry and whine and bitch like a worthless scrawny brat.

I should have done it. Every time Johns talked me down or pulled me away from my death I should have fought harder.

The next ten minutes I only remember in flashes.

Staggering down the street.

Breaking the window to a pharmacist.

Grabbing pills.

I stare at the bottle and almost gleefully I start swallowing them as fast as possible. I have no idea if this will work, who knows how screwed up my biology is at this point.

I'm starting to feel weak now, guess I'll sit here and wait. Not sure where I would go anyway.

I wish John was here. I think I regret doing this to him. He put up with me for so long he doesn't deserve to lose me. I love him. I wish I had said that without just simply repeating him to shut him up. Maybe he'll find me and I'll tell him.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so selfish and lived for him.

like he did for me.

Damn it.

I don't want to die anymore. I can't do this to him, I can't leave him alone after all this. I have to live.

I want to live.

I don't want to die.

He's there. here. next to me. He's shaking me and I can't respond.

he's talking and I can't here him.

I try to tell him I'm sorry, that I love him, and I can't even move my lips.

Things are going dark and I can vaguely feel his lips on mine, his arms around my body.

His tears on my cheek.

I think I'm happier in his arms. I'm glad he's here. I'm glad I'm not alone anymore.

"Sorry." I'm mumbling with no idea if he can hear me or not.

"I love you." I mean it.


End file.
